


All That Jazz

by splot



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Alien Jazz Bars, F/M, I wanted thane in a jazz bar, Musical Ignorance, i have no explanation for this, lies and deception of some nature, thane isnt sick btw up yours bioware, what are timelines ?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 20:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10395936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splot/pseuds/splot
Summary: I’ve got contacts for my eyes.”“What do informants have to do with the colour of your eyes?” Thane asks, bewildered. Shepard barely masks the cheeky grin that threatens to break loose as she takes off a glove.Both Drell and Turian near jump a foot in the air as Shepard presses a bare fingertip to her iris, sliding it sideways. The hazel tracks the movement, but there is the Commander’s natural chocolate iris beneath. She slides it back into place, blinking a few times before grinning in amusement at their horrified reactions.“Contacts!"--The gang infiltrate an alien jazz bar. Just go with it, guys.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive my musical genre/era ignorance. Thane isn't sick. Timelines aren't a thing. More excuses later. I don't own any characters except the creepy one. Brief mentions of sexual crimes but nothing in detail.

“Infiltrating a jazz bar. It can’t be that hard, can it?” _Famous last words._

“An alien jazz bar, Shepard.”

“What are aliens doing starting up a jazz bar?” Sam Shepard kicks her feet up on the desk in the briefing room, mug of coffee in one hand, datapad in the other. Garrus makes an attempt at hiding his amusement, if the brief twitch of his mandible is anything to go by. Miranda looks ready to burst a vein behind the tight-lipped smile she directs at her Commanding Officer.

Thane nudges her chair the tiniest bit with the tip of his boot, and Shepard reluctantly follows the silent directive, taking mercy on the Operative. “Alright, serious face on. Why’m I infiltrating a jazz bar and what does it have to do with Vakarian, Krios, Goto, and you, Lawson?”

“We believe a Turian by the name of Kresta Syrenas, the owner, is using his position of authority to commit a long list of interstellar felonies, not the least of which include possession and distribution of prohibited substances, illegal indentured servitude, sexual harassment and assault—“

“So he’s scum and we’re gonna take him out. I’m guessing the _charge in and castrate_ route isn’t going to work?” Shepard hums, tossing aside the datapad with a disgusted sound at the list displayed on it.

“Not quite.” Miranda heaves a sigh, drumming her fingers against the tabletop. “It’s not going to be a lengthy mission, but your covers need to be well established to get in close. Our sources say he’s been supplying a Turian diplomat with all sorts of nasties he shouldn’t have. We need to be established enough to find out who it is before taking him out.”

“Easy enough.” The Commander sips at her coffee, chocolate gaze roaming the room. “Vakarian can be put in as a bartender. We just need a reason for one of the current bartenders to leave.”

Miranda looks pleased behind the stony expression, nodding as she takes notes. “That can be easily arranged.”

“Kasumi, can you work with Tali? See if you can get me a line into his communications that’ll remain unnoticed.” Shepard grabs the datapad again, scrolling through the information with a hum. Her eyes lock on the line about the club’s current lack of entertainment, but she tucks that away for later.

“Easy done, Commander.” Kasumi’s already tapping away at her omni-tool. “We’ll also work a way to get it to his terminal without having to physically input it. Reduce the risk of being caught.”

Shepard nods in her direction with a finger-gun gesture, datapad resting in her lap. “Thane’s backup. Work your way slowly to become a regular patron. I need you on hand if we get our cover blown.”

“As you wish, Commander.”

“And you, Shepard?” All eyes turn to her, and the Commander in question huffs a long, forlorn sigh, boots thudding to the ground as she stands, downing the last of her coffee. _This’ll be fun._

“I’ll be ready to go when we land. Get Joker to set a course. Kasumi, you got any more of those fancy dresses?”

* * *

 

“We’re boots on the ground in twenty.”

“I have not yet seen the Commander, Operative Lawson. Shall I go and collect her?”

“She’ll be here, Thane. Do you and Garrus have your covers down?”

“My application was processed and approved, Lawson. I’m expected at the bar in an hour.”

“I have reserved a table of great tactical advantage for the following three weeks as of yesterday. All we need now is the Commander.”

The Turian and the Drell are so busy confirming their covers with Lawson that it takes them a moment to notice the firey-haired woman that has fallen into line. Neither recognize her at first, and it’s only the scent that alerts Garrus to who it is.

Even Thane takes a step back, taking the disguised Sam Shepard in. Sam would’ve described her natural look as—well, _brown_. Brown eyes, brown hair constantly wound into a braided knot to keep the length of it from becoming a nuisance, olive-brown skin that spoke of her Middle-Eastern heritage, a dusting of freckles that splatter her body. Now?

Gone was the brown hair in a boring knot. Loose waves of burgundy cascade down to her waist, coloured contacts masking the brown with hazel, more green, more _gold_ than brown. The armour that hides her figure is nowhere to be seen; instead, a thick coat that falls to her calves, fur hemming the collar and sleeves, belt cinching it in at the waist, figure reminiscent of an hourglass.

“Let’s get this over with, I’m fuckin’ freezin’.”

\--And the illusion is shattered. Garrus huffs a laugh as Shepard tugs the fur collar up, burying her face in it with a content hum. “I’m confused. Anyone else confused? Who’re you meant to be?”

“Syrenas’ last three entertainers have gone missing, but prior reports show he was very close with them. He’s got a human fetish, apparently. Samira Khalil is the only way to get close to him.” Shepard pats her hair, making sure it covers the biotic amp at the base of her neck. Garrus blinks as she roots in her pockets, pulling out a set of fine leather gloves with a little _aha!_

“Samira Khalil?”

“I can totally pass for a Samira, Vakarian.”

“I was unaware that humans could access a metamorphosis gene.” Thane interrupts, head tilting to the side, captivated by the new colour of her eyes. “Is this a rare ability among your kind, Commander?”

Shepard laughs, shaking her head as she tugs on a glove. “We developed chemicals to strip away the natural pigment of the hair, and another batch of chemicals to dye it, like colouring material. I’ve got contacts for my eyes.”

“What do informants have to do with the colour of your eyes?” Thane asks, bewildered. _Oh, this will be fun. He walked right into that one, then opened the door and said come in._ Shepard barely masks the cheeky grin that threatens to break loose as she takes off a glove.

Both Drell and Turian near jump a foot in the air as Shepard presses a bare fingertip to her iris, sliding it sideways. The hazel tracks the movement, but there is the Commander’s natural chocolate iris beneath. She slides it back into place, blinking a few times before grinning in amusement at their horrified reactions. “Contacts. Mostly worn to correct vision. It’s a thin, dome-shaped film that goes over the top of your iris and pupil, and it comes in different strengths depending on how shit your vision is. These ones just disguise the colour, though.”

“That is—“ Garrus shudders as she slides on her second glove, and Thane blinks both sets of eyelids, showing his discomfort seeing his Commander effectively jab herself in the eye and come away without any harm or permanent damage. “Never do that again, Shepard.”

“I give the orders, big guy.”

“The contacts will be staying in place for the duration of the operation.” _Pbbbt, buzzkill Lawson._ Garrus just barely hides the amused flick of his mandibles, though the silence is permeated with Shepard’s petulant air at having her fun interrupted while Miranda hands out three non-descript discs the size of a human baby’s palm. “This is the tapping device that Kasumi and Tali created. They won’t work without being in proximity to each other. Virtually undetectable. Thane, yours goes under your table. Garrus, somewhere along the bar. Shepard, either on or by the stage. Information and any communication will stream to a datapad in Thane’s possession, and then bounced to us here. In the unlikely event it is discovered, it will lead to Thane without compromising either of you, and the stream will transfer to a back up datapad hidden in our dummy apartment before coming to us.”

“Easy enough. I can go in with Garrus, considering we’re both technically workers there. Thane, your apartment is a block away, I’ve sent the access codes and address to your omni-tool. Garrus, you’re in the next building, and I’m across the street. Close enough to be in proximity if something goes wrong, far enough to not be suspicious.” Shepard pockets her disk, and as she moves, Thane becomes aware of the delicate tap as she walks. His eyes flick down, taking in the swish of delicate red material that peeks out from under the dark coat, the thin heels that she walks on with as much confidence and stability as an army-issue boot. This new Commander is almost an entirely different species than the one he is used to, from the hair to the sway in her hips when she walks. He can’t help comparing this moment to the last time he met a woman who so affected him, but quickly distracts himself—the last thing he needs is to fall into a solipsism about Irikah while his gaze follows Commander Shepard.

“Alright, kids, lets get this show on the road. Garrus, with me. Thane, to your place, we’ll see you in an hour. You’ve got your comm pieces, but try not to use them unless you absolutely need to.” And with that, Commander Sam Shepard becomes entertainer Samira Khalil, popping her fur collar up around her face as she steps off the Normandy and into the dusky evening.

* * *

 

She feels dirty as Syrenas looks her over, knowing what she does about him. He’s sitting front and center, and the bar is already filling with patrons, the band striking up the ambiance with an instrumental of _La Vie en Rose._ Thane is barely visible in his table in the back of the low-lit club, and Garrus is behind the bar, mixing both levo and dextro drinks like he’d been doing it all his life. The announcer is by the stage, a Turian with grey colony marks, and he nods when he sees her, gesturing for the band to slow its music.

Syrenas leans forward, mandibles flaring to an approximation of a leering smirk that makes Shepard want to take a shower, as she steps onto the darkened stage, spotlight on the announcer.

“And now, all the way from Earth, a special treat. Sit back with a drink, and close your eyes—or keep them open, for she is beautiful—and let Samira take you higher than the Council’s fleet could ever go.”

The lights that come on the stage as Shepard turns her back to the audience are low, though the vibrance of her hair catches in it instantly, a deep red waterfall against the black of her coat. She keeps her back to the audience, unbuckling the belt and letting the coat slowly slide down her back, before slipping it off and laying it on top of the piano. The whistles and hollers are enough to know the low back of the dress has caught the audience’s attention, the few loose straps criss-crossing her back looking barely enough to keep the dress up.

“If you tell me you have a pistol hidden somewhere in that get-up, I’ll owe you two hundred credits.” Garrus murmurs low in the comm channel, and Shepard barely resists the urge to roll her eyes and flip a crude gesture in his direction. Instead, she turns, the silky material of the dress moving with her, each sway of her hips, each step deliberate in order to show off the thigh-high split in the gown. The low cut vee neck attracts even more whistles and hoots, and Shepard has to physically restrain herself from shuddering at the predatory look in Syrenas’ eyes as he rests his elbows on the table, nodding at her to continue.

Thane watches on keenly, eyes taking in all movements in the bar, though most of his focus is on Shepard. The dress should leave her vulnerable, but she wears it like another form of armour, a disguise taken on so fully it becomes her weapon. Every move is deliberate, from the demure way she looks down at the microphone, fingertips sliding up the stand as though steadying herself, right leg slightly bent, knee pressed to the stand to bare to her thigh soft skin that is neither completely brown nor completely olive. The parting of full red lips as a pink tongue flashes out to wet them, and she nods at the band. Only two of the members start to play, the rest content to sit in silence as his Siha—Shepard— _Samira_ parts her lips and begins to sing.

The silence that falls over the club when she sings is astounding, and it almost freezes the words in her throat. Shepard forces herself to persist, accompanied by the two cellists as she croons to the audience, locking eyes with Syrenas in particular. It’s him she needs to get close to. It’s him _Samira_ blushed at when introduced, demure as he took her small hand in his, pressing stiff lip-plates to the back of it in a way that would’ve had Shepard scoffing, but Samira trembling. Shepard wants to lock eyes with Thane, wants to throw a teasing smile Garrus’ way. But Shepard had no importance here.

“ _Music played and people sang.  
Just for me, the church bells rang.” _ The tone change has _Samira_ looking up, hair sliding back over her shoulders, tears welling in her eyes, shimmering in the lights as her hazel gaze passes over the audience, before falling back on Syrenas.

“ _Now he’s gone, I don’t know why.  
and ‘til this day, sometimes I cry._

 _He didn’t even say goodbye,  
he didn’t take the time to lie—“ _ By this time, the cellists have faded out, and it’s just her voice, softly crooning around the club, not even a glass tinkles in the silence. She has truly captivated the audience, and most importantly, Syrenas. He would be obsessed with Samira after this; after all, that is her mission.

_“Bang, bang,  
he shot me down._

_Bang bang,  
                    I hit the ground._

_Bang bang,  
                                                That awful sound._

_Bang bang,  
my baby shot me down._ ”

Her head drops as the lights lower, crocodile tears falling down her cheeks and sparkling against her skin in the spotlight before it fades to black, raucous applause, whistles and cheers from the tables. She risks a shy glance up, noting Syrenas’ contemplative look as his eyes follow her, taloned finger rubbing at his chin. Noticing her gaze, he lets loose that leering smirk, and she allows a small, bashful smile in return. When he looks away, she nods at Garrus and Thane almost imperceptibly. A few more performances, and she was guaranteed an in.

* * *

 

“Syrenas is sending guards to pick me up tonight.” Shepard is only half-focused on the open comm channel between her squad and Lawson, more preoccupied with ensuring her pistol is secure and hidden under her dress. “Means he’s getting suspicious or—more likely—he’s getting ready to hump and dump, as it were. Literally, dump, because he’s killed/disappeared his last three singers.”

“Which means tonight’s the night we get him. Alive or dead, doesn’t matter. We’ve got the information we need.” Miranda concurs. “We’ll have the shuttle on standby.”

“We’ll need to wait until it’s near closing to minimise civilian casualties. We could wait for close but I don’t want to not have Thane at my back.” Shepard hums quietly, strapping on her heel and straightening out. Tonight’s dress was black, the sleeves and high back meaning she wouldn’t need to wear the skin weave designed to hide her scars. The deep vee and the thigh split would bare enough to keep the audience enticed, and she made sure to wrap a hair tie around her wrist for the inevitable scuffle at the end of the night.

“Noted. I can sneak in our weapons, Shepard.” Garrus speaks up, and Shepard checks the hidden thigh holster. A handgun might be considered old-fashioned, but the bullets would stick all the same.

“I’m good, Garrus, just get yours and Thane’s in.”  There’s a knock on the door, and she sighs, straightening her dress before pulling on her coat and gloves. “Good lord, I can’t wait for this to be over. Shepard out.”

* * *

 

 _This night is going on forever._ She’s worked her way through Ella Fitzgerald’s best hits, half of the soundtrack from that old Earth show _Chicago,_ Garrus snickering in her comm at the saucy little two-step during _All that Jazz_ , and _a Guy What Takes his Time_ had her wanting to take a freezing cold decontamination shower after the looks from Syrenas.

But soon, she’s sitting on a stool on the edge of the stage, legs crossed that her thigh is bared by the split but pistol well hidden, and the announcer is claiming the last song of the night. Her eyes catch Garrus’ with a minute nod, and she hears him confirm he’s moving into position, Thane echoing a moment later as they collect their weapons from the back room, the band striking up the chords of _At Last._

At last, indeed. She makes sure to keep eye contact with Syrenas in the pivotal moments of the song, beady gaze following the shape of her leg, looking ready to devour her.

“ _I found a thrill to press my cheek to,  
a thrill that I have never known.” _ The song is coming to a close, and Thane murmurs through the comm, a _say the word, Commander,_ and it takes all she has not to pull her pistol out and shoot Syrenas the minute he does.

She stays on her stool as the bar slowly empties, leaving only Syrenas’ staff and guards. He stands, coming to the edge of the stage where one taloned hand wraps lightly around her ankle, a predatory gleam in his eye. Her smile is unnervingly calm, almost relaxed as she ties her hair up in a knot before leaning forward, elbow on her knee as she cups her chin.

“ That was beautiful, Miss Khalil.” His hand is slowly making its way up her calf, and she hears a low, angry thrum from her earpiece, followed by Garrus mumbling a ‘ _knock it off_ ’ to Thane. “How would you feel about a private performance at my place? Best view in the city.”

“How could I pass up the best view in the city, Mr. Syrenas? Will there be drinks?” _Samira_ purrs, leaning back ever so, a hand trailing up her thigh.

“Whatever you desire, Miss Khalil.” She can see Thane moving silently into position at the back of the room, Garrus in the platforms above, and her smile widens.

“Well then, of course.” She sits upright, drawing on her biotics, letting the kinetic energy wrap around the leg in his grip. The only outward sign of what she’s doing is the smell of ozone in the air, and Syrenas doesn’t seem to notice it, though his guards become restless. “Only if you’ll call me by my name.”

“Samira.”

“No, sweetie, no.” _I’ve been dying to do this for three weeks._ “It’s actually pronounced _Commander Shepard.”_

The kick to his chin sends him flying across the room with the force of her biotics, and she flings herself off the stool, using the piano as cover as she draws her pistol. The ensuing chaos is heady, after three weeks of an infiltration stake-out. Garrus is laughing in her ear, though Thane is silent as ever, murmuring prayers to his gods as he does.

“I can’t believe you had a gun hidden beneath that dress.” Garrus exclaims as Shepard rolls out, kicking over a table and using it as cover as she fires on Syrenas. She’s at a considerate disadvantage, with her bullets barely denting his armour.

“I believe you said something about two hundred credits, big guy.” Shepard says with a grunt, putting all her effort into her biotics and sending a shockwave to flush out the guards for Thane’s shots. There’s a guard and Syrenas left, Shepard’s exhausted, and she wants this over. “Cover me, boys.”

“What’re you—“ Garrus doesn’t have time to ask as she bolts out from cover, dodging their shots with a little difficulty. One grazes her side, another her shoulder, but soon Thane has the guard down as she vaults over the broken table Syrenas is using as a cover, the last drips of her biotics knocking him off balance enough for her to stand over him, heel on his neck, gun at his forehead.

“You bitch!” He snarls, but he’s smart enough not to move. “You can’t prove anything. I own this planet. I’ll be out in an hour. And then I’m going to take my time breaking you before I kill you.”

Shepard raises an eyebrow, cocking the gun with an amused grin. “He thinks I’m turning him in.” She says conversationally to her silent snipers, curious to see what she does next. “You think I’m going to risk you being back on the streets after what you’ve done, you filthy sack of shit?”

It’s the brief look of horror and fear in his eyes that’s satisfying. Not that she enjoys killing, but he knows how his victims felt, now, facing their death at his hands. It’s for those girls that she puts the bullet in his brain, clinical and calm.

* * *

 

Her contacts are out the minute they’re in the shuttle, heels off as she presses the torn fabric from the hem of her dress to the graze on her side. She’s sure it’s deeper than it looks, but she’s exhausted as all hell and all she can think of is getting to bed. Thane and Garrus are quiet, though Joker’s chattering in their ears as the shuttle docks.

“Welcome back, Commander, good job—I do have one issue though, you realise half the songs you sang weren’t actually _jazz_ , right? I mean, the aliens wouldn’t know but—Kasumi pulled the security tapes, so that’s how I know, and have you always been able to cry on command—“ She’s limping to the elevator, keying in the code for her cabin before anyone can shuffle her to Chakwas.

“Joker? I don’t care right now. I’m tired, my feet hurt, and my underwear has ridden up my ass. You can lecture me on my musical ignorance in two days, got it? Set a course for the Citadel as soon as Lawson has everything wrapped up, I feel the need to be around civilised beings after all of that.” The outburst surprises Joker into silence, albeit an amused one, and he logs off with an _aye, aye, Commander,_ as she yanks out her earpiece and blows a strand of burgundy hair out of her face. She’s going to dye it back to her natural brown as soon as she can, she was sick of the colour red.

Instead, she makes straight for her shower, stripping down to her underwear as she sits under the stream. Shepard's not sure how long she's there before Edi speaks up.

"Commander, Thane is requesting access to your quarters." It jolts Shepard from her light doze, barely noticing the pink water swirling in the drain as her wounds leak.

"Why?" It's a valid question, and there's a pause as Edi inquires.

"He was concerned about your wellbeing.  He appears to be aware that you dislike being in the medical bay, despite your friendship with Dr. Chakwas." The thoughtfulness touches her heart, and she shrugs, getting comfortable against the wall.

"Let him in, but warn him about my state of undress. I don't know how Drell react to partial nudity." Shepard hums, eyes sliding shut. When she opens them again, Thane's leaning over her to switch the water off, pulling a towel from the shelf to wrap around her as he sits her on the edge of the basin.

He doesn't say anything about the multitude of scars that litter her skin, nor about her reluctance to go to the medical bay, but works about patching her up in content silence.

She feels-- she feels _wrong_. He is attentive and honest and open with her, gentle hands on her skin, and when he calls her Shepard and asks how she's feeling, she feels ashamed.

"I'm not- I mean..." She shouldn't say it. God knows what would happen if it got out. But he's staring at her with those dark eyes, hands gently resting on her thighs. The touch doesn't have that sinister current that Syrenas' touch did, had left her needing a bath in a decontamination chamber. No, Thane's touch was reassuring, calming, warm against her skin through the towel. "Shepard. It's... hmm."

She's not quite sure how to explain the concept of human racism to an alien. Her fingers clench in the towel, and she shivers.

"You must be cold, Siha." He helps her off the counter, letting her lean heavily on him as he helps her to her bed. He tucks the blankets firmly around her, and flashes her a gentle smile. "I should let you rest."

"No, wait--" The plea spills forth before she can control it, and she sits up, bringing the blankets with her. A conflicted look passes his face for the briefest moment before he takes a seat on the bed next to her, patient as he waits for her to continue. "I have something to tell you."

"Of course, Siha. I will listen." The baritone of his voice is soothing, and she takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"You'd think that discovering aliens would mean that humanity would put aside all differences and band together."  She starts, fingertips playing with the bedspread. “But racism among our own kind is still… rampant, I’d guess you could say. Earth is made up of lots of countries—imagine it like the Krogan clans, Somewhere around 190 clans. Each one has their own unique look, government, code, language, traditions, religions, with each clan averaging about thirty four million people, some clans bigger, some smaller.”

“This is very interesting information, but I gather not what you appear to be conflicted about.” Thane’s prodding has a way of pushing her back on track while at the same time not making her feel stupid for talking in such circles. Shepard huffs out a small laugh, running a hand through her damp hair.

“Right. There are some countries where the people in it believe they are superior than those of other races. It’s never the majority, but it’s still been a cause of discontent among humanity. They can judge their so-called superiority on anything ranging from skin colour to religion followed, anything. We’ve even had wars over it, like the 1939 war, where a man named Adolf Hitler rallied armies to decimate whole populations because they didn’t meet his standard of blonde-haired, blue-eyed, white skinned being the superior race.” There’s a crease in Thane’s brow, as though he can’t imagine humans being so discontent with each other over something so insignificant. Regardless, he stays silent, allowing her to talk as she had listened to him so many times before.

“In my case, people of my background are treated poorly thanks to the actions of terrorists, the majority of which are of a Middle-Eastern background. The Middle-East is like…” She’s running out of comparisons, and it makes Thane’s lips twitch in a slight grin as her lower lip pouts out, brow creasing in thought. “It’s a cluster of countries, they speak a similar language, have similar traits and traditions, so on.”

“And other humans look down on your people?” Thane seems to be following well enough, considering he’s following the rambling of an exhausted human who seems to be getting to a point—though he’s not quite sure of what it is yet.

“I didn’t have the best upbringing. On the streets, my brother Jacob and I were called all sorts of horrible names, treated badly and spat on because we wore our heritage proudly. When we joined the 10th Street Reds, we went by Mo and Sam. When Jacob and I enlisted in the Alliance military, we were turned away. When we attempted a second time under the names Jake and Sam Shepard, we were accepted.” And there it is. What she’d been trying to tell him. She’s afraid to see judgement in his eyes for her lying, the fact that she’s gone so long under a name that isn’t hers, but the silence is thoughtful.

“What is Sam Shepard an alias for?” He asks instead, a hand finding hers, fingers twining gently. Shepard’s startled enough to look up, and finds only acceptance in Thane’s eyes. He smiles, as if sensing her thoughts, fingertips tightening near-imperceptibly around hers. “Did you think I would change my opinion of you for protecting yourself?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs, absently turning his hand over in hers, fingertips tracing the lines of his palm, noting the texture of the small scales there. He seems content to let her sate her curiosity, smile affectionate. “It’s a big deal for humans. Identity fraud, shit like that. Even though I didn’t take anyone’s identity. I just chose a really generic white name.”

“White name? How can a name be coloured?” Thane asks as her fingertips run up his forearm, following the dark lines with a quiet hum.

“Not physically coloured. Uh… Caucasian is the more appropriate term. Someone of European origin, American descent—those are two continents with the majority populations, many of them light-skinned. More acceptable.” She thinks maybe the blood loss from her wounds has affected her sense of personal space, because she can’t seem to stop touching him. The scales feel oddly nice against her fingertips, and she realizes he must have shed his coat when he collected her bedraggled ass from the bottom of her shower. He’s lean muscle as opposed to Kaidan’s bulk, and his fingertips catch the underside of her upper arm as she leans forward to continue her exploration.

“You evaded my question, Commander.” It’s his turn to explore, it seems, green pads running the length of her arm to wrap around the back of her shoulder, gentle as they trace the scars that wrap around the skin there. Where Cerberus had synthetically weaved new skin for her, they’d also managed to salvage what she’d originally had in some places. This, of course, meant the majority they’d salvaged was scar tissue that had healed over, tougher and durable enough to survive what she’d been through. The first time she’d seen it, she’d broken the mirror in a fit of rage at the patchwork doll reflected back. Her scars from childhood, from Akuze, Saren, Sovereign, morbidly fused with skin as smooth as an infant’s, the orange glow of cybernetics where the fuse was thin and hadn’t completely healed. His fingertips trace the smoother skin before moving to the scarred flesh, a hum thrumming through his chest. “You told me your brother’s real name, but I’ve yet to hear yours.”

“Samira. Samira Khalil.” The words are almost too loud in the room. It feels odd having to re-introduce herself with the name, this time truthfully claiming it as her own. It had been easy to respond to the name when she’d used it in the operation—a name she’d heard while running through the streets with her brother, laughing on her trail. A name she’d worn proudly until it stood in her way and she’d shamefully hidden it. Thane’s smile widens as he realizes she’d used her real name as an alias.

“Samira.” He likes the way it sounds, and she finds she adores the way it sounds in his deep voice. “It is a beautiful name. And I thank you for your trust in me.”

She expects it to end there. He’s using the hand on her shoulder to gently rest her back against the pillows, and her loose limbs are subject to his will, too exhausted to resist. Thane tucks the blankets around her, softly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

So she doesn’t quite know how to react when he leans in, lips brushing ever so gently against hers. He keeps it chaste, not wanting this first kiss to be ruined by the hallucinogenic effect Mordin had warned him about when the Salarian had noted his interest. She’s still for a moment, before leaning up into the touch, a quiet sound against his lips setting his blood aflame. Her fingertips lightly brush the ribbing on the side of his throat, and it’s with great difficulty that he pulls away with a low thrum, forehead against hers. Her eyes flutter open, though she can’t recall letting them close, but his remain closed, getting his breathing under control before he lightly takes her hand from his neck. He presses his lips to her fingertips, and then to her forehead, readjusting the blankets around her with a smile before making towards the door. He switches out the lights for her, but he turns at the door, voice quiet and soothing in the silence.

“Shepard. Samira. No matter what name you choose to wear, you will continue to be my Siha.”

The door shuts before she can ask him what it means, but her eyes have already slid shut before the electronic latch has properly clicked into place.

**Author's Note:**

> *banging hands on table* MORE ARAB PROTAGONISTS. MORE ARAB REPRESENTATION.  
> After this, she starts going by Samira Shepard, if only bc well it's too late now to change her name back everyone in the galaxy knows her as Shepard. Joker lectures her on her musical ignorance by choosing songs that probably aren't jazz to sing in an alien jazz bar.  
> I want to say imagine her with an Aussie accent, but imagine her however you want.  
> I imagine the skin weave she used to hide her scars was something like that thing Natasha used in Winter Soldier to pretend to be the Councilwoman, except it's not as advanced to replicate facial features and expressions.  
> I may add more to the Samira series, I may not. Who knows man this was just some self indulgent bullshit.  
> LINKS:  
> [Bang bang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vvyW96akH6U)  
> [Dress 1](https://au.pinterest.com/pin/374643262737032669)  
> [Dress 2](https://au.pinterest.com/pin/41376890303627757) but not velvet for either of those dresses man velvet is so gross to touch doesn't anyone else get goosebumps touching velvet?


End file.
